Eugene
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: Eugene is a child with special abilities, who doesn't speak and is mysteriously accident-prone. Nobody can figure out what's going on… Until the Winchesters get involved. Spoilers up to about midway through Season 2.


**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note: **This is Cheryl's birthday present. I'm not entirely sure how appropriate it is for a birthday, but… Well. Apparently this is the kind of fic I'm writing these days. Happy birthday!

**Warnings: **This is a dark and not entirely happy story. Plenty of loose ends. Vague spoilers up to about midway through Season 2.

**Summary: **Eugene is a child with special abilities, who doesn't speak and is mysteriously accident-prone. Nobody can figure out what's going on… Until the Winchesters get involved.

* * *

**Eugene**

The kid's name is Eugene, and Dean can't help but wonder what kind of parents who don't want their son bullied in the playground name him _Eugene_. He tells Sam that, but Sam only shrugs and points out that it might be worse. They might have named him Beauregard.

With a name like that, it's no surprise to find that the boy looks like something out of a painting, a head of golden curls and wide blue eyes that are _almost _as melting as Sam's.

Dean can't help feeling sorry for him.

They're standing in the foyer of his parents' house. Sam's still outside pumping one of the neighbours for background information, and anyway little boys usually respond better to Dean than to Sam – they probably realize Princess Samantha was never one of them – so Dean crouches and holds out his hands.

Eugene hides behind his mother's legs and looks at Dean through wide eyes, not saying a word.

"He doesn't talk," says the mother.

Dean straightens.

"Vicky." She holds out a hand.

Dean takes it. "Dean." He tries not to give her the once-over, but it's hard to resist. Vicky's a beautiful woman. It's easy to see where Eugene got his hair and eyes.

He hears a cleared throat, and suppresses the smirk that tries to form as he turns to Vicky's husband.

"Jeff," says the man. "I'm the one who spoke to… your brother, I think?"

"Yeah. Sam's going to be here in a minute. Is there anything you can tell me while we're waiting for him?"

By the time Sam comes in five minutes later, Dean's got the gist of the story. Eugene's a little shy, but physically he's perfectly healthy. His parents have tried doctors and psychiatrists and faith healers, and nobody's been able to identify anything wrong with him.

Except that he doesn't talk.

The doctors say he can, if he wants to. The psychiatrists say he seems well-adjusted but there might have been some unidentified trauma, and then ask unpleasant questions about Eugene's paediatrician.

The faith healers just say maybe God doesn't want Eugene to talk.

Vicky and Jeff were getting desperate when they ran into grizzled old Martin, who'd suggested they call Sam and Dean.

"I don't… Look, we're not into this black magic voodoo stuff," Jeff says uncomfortably. "It's just… We're out of options, and Martin thought you guys might be able to help."

Sam automatically responds with a gentle smile of understanding. Just as automatically, he turns the smile on the kid.

The kid smiles back.

"He's taken to you." Vicky sounds startled. "He usually hates strangers."

Dean's caught between being faintly irritated that the kid ignored _him_ and being smugly proud that Sam, with no effort, has apparently made a good impression on a boy who hates people.

He nudges Sam, who obediently kneels and reaches out to Eugene.

Dean kicks him in the shin. Sam glares up at him, but then he says quietly, "Hi, Eugene. I'm Sam."

Eugene takes a couple of steps forward and grabs Sam's hand.

Sam's eyes roll up in his head.

* * *

"What happened?" Dean demands, sitting Sam up.

Sam takes a minute, curled into Dean, while his breathing calms down and the heartbeat jackhammering under Dean's hand returns to its normal rhythm.

Then he looks up, ignoring Vicky and Jeff and Eugene standing anxiously behind Dean. Dean's between Sam and the potential threat, even if that potential threat comes in the form of a five-year-old who knocked Sam out by _touching _him.

"What happened?" Dean repeats.

"He can feel things," Sam whispers. "Eugene. He can _feel _things."

"Like… powers?"

"Not like me," Sam says. "I don't think so, anyway. Feels different, not like it did with Andy and Ava. But he can feel what people are feeling… He's an empath of some kind. I think maybe he can project his own feelings, but he doesn't know how. Yet."

"Empath?" Vicky asks, high and frightened. "Project? What can he project? What are you talking about?"

Dean bites his lip. This isn't the best way to have this conversation, but…

"What Sam's saying," Dean says, helping his brother to his feet, "is that your son may have psychic abilities."

"Psychic abilities," Jeff repeats.

"Yeah. This isn't the first case we've –"

"You think _our son _is – no. No, come on. That's ridiculous. There's no such thing. And – with all due respect – how would your brother know anyway?" Dean meets the man's gaze, and Jeff's eyes widen. "Sam's psychic too? You think we're just going to _believe _all your fairytales?" He rounds on Sam. "So you can tell what I'm feeling? Right this minute, you know what I'm feeling?"

Sam flushes. "Well, yeah, but mainly because I'd have to be deaf and blind not to know that you're feeling a mixture of fear, anger and disbelief. But I can't read your mind or anything. The ability doesn't work like that. Not mine, anyway. We'll know more about Eugene's as it manifests."

"You're out of your mind," Jeff insists.

"Honey," his wife interrupts, "I think we should hear them out."

He whirls to face her. "You can't be telling me you _buy _this story?"

"I'm telling you I don't understand what's going on, and neither do you. Maybe we should consider alternate theories."

* * *

"Any ideas?" Dean asks later.

Sam shrugs. He's been a little preoccupied since they got back to the motel. He didn't even _react _when Dean unwrapped his quarter-pounder, and normally one of those would be reason enough for Bitchface Number Eighteen at _least_, _and _a forty-minute lecture on arteries.

"Hey."

Dean reaches over to prod his brother's arm. Sam ignores him, so Dean shifts focus to his ticklish ribs. That elicits a half-hearted glare.

"Come on, princess. What's eating _you_?"

Sam sighs, eyes going dewy.

Dean just manages not to groan. He _really _isn't in the mood for a heart-to-heart right now. But _Sam _clearly is, so Dean's just going to have to listen to whatever it is that's making his brother brood, and then maybe they can watch a movie like normal people instead of letting the case take over their lives.

"All right, spit it out," Dean demands. "What's wrong?"

"He's a kid, Dean. He doesn't deserve this." Sam ducks his head, and his next words are so soft Dean almost can't hear them. "He doesn't deserve to be a freak."

_Oh._

"We don't know that there's anything supernatural wrong with Eugene. And you're not a freak," Dean says, with patience he doesn't feel. "We've discussed this, Sam. Bad things happened to you –"

"Bad things happened _because _of me," Sam snaps. "And I bet Dad knew. That's why he always –"

"_Sam_," Dean warns.

"Don't." Sam gets to his feet, half-turning to Dean. "Everyone knows, Dean. _Martin _knows, and he's a hunter too. Why didn't _he _deal with this? He knows I'm a freak –"

"The hell he does! And where do you think you're going?"

"Out. Alone."

* * *

Sam's back an hour later, with black coffee and a slice of pecan pie for Dean. Dean takes them as the apology they're meant to be, calls Sam a bitch and smacks him lightly on the arm, leaving his hand there a moment longer than necessary.

Sam doesn't say a word about Eugene or the case, though Dean can tell from the way he worries his bottom lip that he isn't thinking about much else. But bringing it up will just lead to another argument.

Dean orders pizza and they watch _Die Hard_, and for a couple of hours it's easy to pretend there's nothing else to worry about.

* * *

They go back the next day, and Eugene climbs Sam like a jungle gym. Dean can see his brother's uncomfortable, but he doesn't object.

Sam asks to see the doctor's reports, and Vicky hands him a file that's at least three inches thick.

"Kind of accident-prone, isn't he?" Sam murmurs as he flicks through the documents.

Dean promptly abandons his conversation with Vicky – he's not _flirting_; he knows Sam thinks he doesn't have a line but Dean wouldn't hit on a married woman – and reads over Sam's shoulder.

He knows what Sam means right away. There's nothing concrete, nothing that anyone would actually notice. Kids are kids, and scraped knees and falls from bikes are part of being a kid. It's just that Eugene's medical history seems a little _too _full. Not suspiciously so; just enough for the adults responsible for him to shake their heads and wish he wouldn't be so clumsy.

And the kid doesn't talk. So if there _is _something other than clumsiness causing his little accidents, there's no way for him to tell anyone.

"You let him play with other children?" Dean asks, noting that a lot of the ER visits have resulted from playground accidents.

"They said it was best," Vicky says, a little apologetic and a little defiant. "He's healthy. There's no reason he shouldn't do what other kids do. And we hoped that being around other children would make him… talk."

* * *

Dean goes over the house looking for hex bags and EMF, leaving Sam to try to get information out of Eugene.

Sam doesn't like it. He insists that Dean's better with kids. That's true, though Dean suspects it's because Sam's famous empathy with witnesses is simply an ability to puppy-dog everyone he meets into submission, and five-year-old boys don't respond to it as readily as adults do.

Whatever. It'll do Sam good to see what it's like to have to handle witnesses like a normal person.

It's when Dean's in the attic, maybe taking a few minutes longer than necessary to flick through Vicky's high school yearbook – they made their cheerleaders hotter than hell in Pine Grove High School in 1994 – that she comes and finds him.

Dean doesn't bother to hide what he was doing. He just grins, confident and suave, and says, "I'm just about done here."

She smiles like she knows a secret he doesn't. Dean doesn't like it.

"What?" he asks, just the right side of belligerent.

"It doesn't matter, Dean. Snoop if you want to. Anything that'll help Eugene…" She draws in a long breath. "I will do anything for my son. _Anything._"

Dean doesn't answer, but he understands.

They go downstairs together. Jeff, Sam and Eugene are sitting together around the kitchen table. Jeff, Dean notices, is sitting as far from Sam as he can, and it makes his fists clench. They're only here to help, and if Jeff can't handle that –

"Hey, Sammy." Dean drops a hand to Sam's shoulder, squeezing it, meeting Jeff's eyes with a glare. "Find anything?"

"Dean." Sam leans back. "Eugene was… drawing. I think you should see."

Sam pushes a sheet of yellow construction paper at him. Dean picks it up. Eugene's never going to be Michelangelo, but the crayon figures are recognizable as people. He's drawn his parents, Dean can tell by Vicky's blue eyes and curly yellow hair. He's drawn them, him and Sam.

And he's drawn other people.

People with red hair and brown, tall and short and male and female and sitting and standing, and they all have one thing in common: black eyes.

Dean grips Sam's shoulder so tightly he knows he'll leave a bruise.

* * *

"Demons? First psychic abilities and now _demons_?"

"Jeff, please," Vicky says, but Jeff isn't having any of it.

Dean wouldn't mind – it can be a lot to take in – but it's _Sam _that Jeff's directing all his anger towards, Sam whom he's yelling at, Sam whom he's grabbing by the shoulders and shoving against the wall. Dean's restraining himself with difficulty, and if Jeff doesn't get his hands off Sammy _now_, Dean won't be responsible for the consequences.

"I understand how you feel," Sam begins, but Jeff interrupts him.

"_You _understand? A freak like you?"

"Jeff!" Vicky sounds angry now. "You're not going to help Eugene by making enemies of the people who might be able to solve this." She turns to Dean. "I'm sorry."

She should be apologizing to Sam, but she's correctly guessed two things: first, that Sammy's too nice for his own good, and second, that Dean doesn't like people manhandling his little brother.

Dean subtly bumps Sam's shoulder with his, earning a quick glance and a small smile that tell him Sam's OK.

OK.

Demons.

They can deal with this.

He starts to speak, but stops when Eugene gets up from the table, where he was drawing and paying no attention to their conversation. He has another sheet of construction paper. He gives it to Sam.

Sam smiles, patting his head, and looks down at the paper.

Then his eyes widen in horror and he bolts from the room.

* * *

Dean finds Sam in the Impala, Eugene's sheet of construction paper crushed in his fist. He takes it and smoothens it out.

A big figure lies in a crooked bed, staring up at a woman on the ceiling. Yellow and orange flames surround her, and there's a slash of red at her stomach.

Dean doesn't bother to speak. There's nothing to say. With all the months that have passed, Jessica's death is still too raw for words to be any comfort. He puts his hand on Sam's back and leaves it there until Sam gives him a shaky half-smile and gets to his feet.

* * *

Dean doesn't know if Eugene's drawing means Vicky and Jeff are in any sort of danger. Supernatural things might be after them because of Eugene's abilities. He doesn't know. He doesn't _want_ to suggest it, doesn't want to let the words cross his lips in case Sam takes it as a sign that Dean blames him for what happened to their mother.

But it has to be said, so Dean says it with Sam right next to him, so he can drop his hand to Sam's knee and squeeze reassurance.

Vicky shrugs. "It doesn't matter, Dean. If you can stop this – save Eugene – we'll all be fine anyway."

_And if you can't_, he knows she means, _it doesn't matter anyway._

She looks at Dean's hand on Sam's knee and then back up to meet his eyes, and they understand each other.

* * *

"The park." Dean tries to keep the incredulity from his tone and ends up sounding flatly emotionless. "You want to take Eugene to the park."

"I want him to do something he enjoys!" Vicky snaps.

"Do you have any idea how hard it's going to be to keep him safe –"

"That's my son you're talking about, Dean. I know the risks."

"Then you know why it's a bad idea."

"I can't keep him cooped up forever! He's going stir-crazy stuck indoors all day. He's used to being outside, I've always encouraged him to play outdoors."

And that's how they end up with a picnic blanket spread on the floor of Eugene's room.

Eugene seems to have decided Sam is his new favourite chair, because he plonks himself down on Sam's lap and refuses to move, even when his mother entices him with his favourite PB&Js.

Sam looks a little terrified, but he rolls with it, and Dean's actually starting to relax and have a good time when the lights flicker.

Sam's lips are moving in an exorcism before Dean can even get to his gun.

"_Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino…"_

They're both too late. Vicky's eyes go black.

"… _qui fertis ascendit…"_

Eugene senses the change in his mother, even if he doesn't understand it; he presses himself against Sam, hiding from this thing with black eyes and a cruel smile and his mother's face, even as Sam flings himself, and Eugene, back out of the demon's reach.

"… _super caelum caeli…_"

Dean point his gun. "Get out of her."

The demon laughs. "Empty threats. You're not going to kill an innocent woman with her son watching."

"… _ad Orientem ecce dabit…_"

Sam pushes Eugene away from him as the demon lunges. A moment later the demon's on Sam, hands around his throat, choking off the words.

Dean picks it up. "_Voci suae –_"

The demon leaps at him, knocking the gun out of his hand.

"_Vocem virtutis_," Sam says. "_Tribuite –_"

And it's back on Sam, and Dean swears the next time something tries to strangle his little brother he's going to do worse than exorcise it.

"_Virtutem deo_," he snaps.

Quiet settles like a blanket as the demon streams out of Vicky. She gasps, pushing herself off Sam and apologizing.

She reaches for Eugene, but he backs away, uncertain. Dean sees her hurt and wishes he could help, but the kid's scared now, and –

"Hey," Sam says gently, holding out a hand to Eugene. "Come here."

Eugene immediately launches himself up into Sam's arms. It's a pretty impressive feat, considering Sam's standing, and if the situation weren't so serious Dean would be commenting on his possible future as an Olympic high jump athlete.

Eugene buries his head in Sam's shoulder as Sam steps close to Vicky. "It's your mom," Sam says gently. "Look. Just your mom. The demon's gone."

"Eugene," Vicky says shakily. "It's me. I'm so sorry I scared you."

Eugene doesn't look at her. Instead he touches Sam's neck, running a finger over the reddened skin that Dean knows from experience will soon be showing some impressive finger shaped bruises that'll lead to Sam wearing high-collared shirts for a few days.

Fortunately Vicky has small hands. The last time something tried to strangle Sam it had hands about the size of Dean's and everybody they met for the next couple of days glared at Dean like he was an axe-murderer and took Sam aside to ask if he needed help. One do-gooder even gave Sam a pamphlet about a helpline for abuse victims.

Dean wasn't even angry with them, because in principle he approves of people looking out for Sam, but he doesn't know why everyone assumed _he'd _done it. He'd asked Sam, who'd looked at him with big damp eyes and then told the cashier at the next café they visited that Dean was the best big brother ever. The cashier looked bewildered and a little suspicious, but Dean couldn't keep from grinning like a lunatic.

Sam's eyes aren't big or damp now. They're warm and gentle as he turns so that Eugene's facing his mom. Sam doesn't shove him at her; he knows better. He waits until Eugene's stopped trembling and then loosens his grip just enough to let Vicky reach out and take him.

She smiles her thanks at him.

Jeff meets Dean's eyes, his gaze so dark Dean almost shivers.

* * *

That night Sam stays in Eugene's room, shotgun in his hand and rosary in his fist. Eugene seemed happy to have his new friend there. He showed Sam his teddy bear, holding it up as high as he could so Sam could pat it with one big hand. Jeff stared incredulously, and Vicky smiled softly and whispered to Dean that normally nobody was allowed to touch Ted. Dean tried not to look grin too broadly.

Dean and Jeff patrol the outside of the house. Dean would have patrolled alone, but Jeff insisted.

It's locked down as tight as it can be. Dean laid salt lines at all the doors and windows himself, and Sam used up an entire box of chalk covering the floor with Latin and Hebrew. It won't be enough to keep everything out, but maybe it'll buy them some time.

Dean's willing to swear that he doesn't let anything get past him. All the same, at around three in the morning, he hears a sharp scream from Vicky.

They run inside. Vicky's sitting on the living room floor, her shirt red-stained at the shoulder. It's not fatal, so Dean runs through the room and goes for the stairs.

But they're already in flames.

He would climb them anyway if he could because Eugene's up there – _Sam's _up there – but fire billows down, pushing him back. He hears a cracking sound a moment before a large section of the stairs collapses.

"I've called the fire department," Jeff says, and Dean wants to laugh. What they're up against, the fire department can't help with.

Instead he turns to Vicky.

"The back windows?"

"There's a ladder in the garage."

"If we're lucky we won't need it. Bring the couch cushions."

* * *

Smoke's billowing out the back windows too, thick and black, and Dean's heart is in his throat. There's no way he'll be able to get through it.

"Sam!" he yells.

There's a faint answering shout, and he starts breathing again.

"_Sam!_" he shouts, louder. "Sammy, where are you? What do you need?"

"Here!" Vicky gasps. She's uncoiled the garden hose and lugged it over.

Dean turns it on. It's fast for a garden hose, but a pitiful trickle compared to what they need to combat this blaze. Still, it's the best hope they've got until the fire department gets here.

"Which window?"

"Eugene's on the left."

Dean aims the hose. It doesn't get high enough to go all the way inside, but it calms the flames licking at the window ledge.

A moment later, Sam's head sticks out through the pall of smoke.

"Catch him!" Sam calls hoarsely.

Jeff's already moving the cushions into place below the window. Dean keeps the hose trained on the window, drenching Sam. Under any circumstances the sight of Sam's hair falling damply into his eyes would make him laugh, but –

"Ready!" says Jeff.

Sam's head disappears inside again.

He's back a moment later, lifting Eugene up to the sill. Eugene's got a cloth tied around his nose and mouth. His clothes are badly burned, blackened and clinging to his body in places.

Dean's breath catches.

Sam takes a look at the cushions, positions Eugene, and then pushes him off the ledge. He falls onto the cushions.

Vicky grabs him, and Dean hears her exclamation of horror but the kid's moving so he's breathing, and maybe he's twisted his ankle but that's better than a horrible fiery death.

And Sam's still up there.

"Sammy!"

Sam clambers onto the ledge and jumps. He lands awkwardly, but on the cushions, and Dean's on him in a moment. He's coughing like he can't breathe – God, smoke inhalation, and this is literally Dean's worst nightmare. At some level he's conscious of Jeff on the phone yelling at the ambulance to drive faster, of Vicky saying something comforting to her son, but all he can really think about is Sam.

* * *

Without discussion, Vicky and Dean get into the ambulance, leaving Jeff to drive to the hospital. Dean can tell he's pissed, but that's Dean's baby brother in there. Eugene's got his mother with him, and Sammy needs someone too.

One of Sam's hands is burned – it's not serious, the EMT said, and Dean _wants _to believe him. He takes the other one, squeezing soot-blackened fingers so Sammy knows he's not alone.

A few inches away, Vicky's doing the same thing with Eugene.

They don't speak to each other until they're at the hospital and the gurneys have been pushed through the swinging doors, leaving Dean and Vicky standing in the waiting room.

"I'm sorry," Dean says into the sudden silence. "I have no idea how anything got past me. It should've been impossible."

"I know you would've done your best," Vicky says woodenly.

"And so did Sam," Dean says sharply. He doesn't want her forgiveness if it means she's going to shunt the blame onto Sammy.

"Yes, of course." Vicky looks surprised at the question. "He's in the Emergency Room strapped to a gurney right next to Eugene. Who could possibly think he didn't try his best to stop… the demon?"

"Was it a demon?"

"It had black eyes, just like you said. I tried the exorcism Sam gave me, but it was too quick."

"Don't worry. We'll track it down." Dean clenches his fists. "That demon is going to _die_."

"Will it help?" Vicky asks, voice breaking on the last word.

Dean doesn't know what to tell her. He's always believed revenge helps, always understood Dad's quest to hunt down the thing that killed Mom, but now…

Dean holds out his hands, letting Vicky step into his arms and cry against his shoulder.

* * *

"Mr. Wesson?"

Dean looks up. He's alone now – Jeff and Vicky were escorted to the Paediatric Wing ten minutes ago.

The doctor looks serious, but not tense. Over a lifetime spent hunting, Dean's learnt to read doctor's faces. This isn't a bad news face.

"Dr. James?" he reads off the nametag.

"Your brother had us worried for a while," the doctor says. "His blood pressure was falling, and we couldn't get him breathing on his own. We thought we were going to lose him… But he's better now."

"Will he be OK?"

"He's burned his arm – I don't think he'll need skin grafts, but it'll probably scar. There was an injury to his abdomen, it looked like something… um… tore into him. But he might have hurt himself trying to get out – I was told he escaped from a burning house?"

"Yeah."

"That might explain it. Fortunately there was no serious damage to his internal organs. He's going to be in a lot of pain for a few days. But he should make a full recovery."

Dean takes a minute to breathe and _feel_.

Then he says, "Thank you. You have no idea – if I'd lost him…"

"He'll be fine."

"Can I see him?"

"They're getting him settled now. One of the nurses will be along to take you up to his room."

* * *

Sam's breath is fogging the oxygen mask. His eyes are open and alert, and they widen in relief when Dean steps into the room.

Dean goes straight to Sam, ignoring the chair and sitting on the edge of the bed instead. His fingers skim Sam's bandaged chest and stomach, but he doesn't dare touch. He settles on Sam's jaw instead, resting his thumb there long enough to feel the beat of life.

"You're OK."

Sam says something that's lost in the mask, but it doesn't take a genius to figure it out.

"Eugene's OK too," Dean assures him. "Vicky and Jeff are with him now. He's going to need some surgery, but he'll live." He brushes a strand of hair off Sam's face. "You'll both live."

* * *

Both Sam and Eugene need to stay in hospital for another two days. It drives Dean crazy. He's not stupid enough to go after the demon on his own, but it goes against all his instincts to let it run loose.

He's done everything he can to secure the place. He tried to get them moved into the same room, but the doctors were adamant that Eugene needed to stay in the Paediatric Wing, so now both rooms are supplied with rosaries and crucifixes and flasks of holy water. He has a feeling the nurses think he's some sort of religious nut, but right now he doesn't care.

Vicky's come by a couple of times to see Sam, but he's been out of it each time. They're keep him doped up because of the pain. His periods of lucidity have been few, and just long enough for Dean to spoon a few ice chips between his dry lips before he drifts off again.

Dean's almost glad Sam's not been awake to talk to Vicky. This was a close call, and he needs his brother to himself, needs the comfort that comes with knowing Sammy only wakes up for him.

Today, though, Sam's more alert as the drugs work their way out of his system. When Vicky and Jeff come in – and Dean's jaw tightens as he realizes that Jeff is trying to stand _between _Sam and his wife, like he thinks Sam's some sort of threat – Sam smiles at them, and the smile widens when he sees they've brought Eugene.

Eugene's own face turns sunny as soon as his eyes light on Sam. He jumps out of his father's arms and onto the bed, ignoring Vicky's admittedly half-hearted protest.

Dean's tense, ready to remove the kid if he looks like he's hurting Sam, but he's surprisingly agile, clambering over Sam without actually making contact with his bandage-swathed arm or ribs.

Eugene himself still has gauze wound around his hand, and there's a shiny scar from his hairline down to his nose that Dean knows will be permanent. There something particularly horrifying about that sign of violence marring his cherubic face – but it makes Dean like him more, too, like that was what he needed to become human.

Eugene, ignoring his father's disapproving scowl, looks at Sam, eyes asking the question.

"I'll be fine," Sam assures him. "Are you OK?"

Eugene spends the next hour curled up to Sam drawing on a notepad balanced on his knees. Dean doesn't know if he's drawing things he's seen or just random crap, but it seems to be amusing Sam, so he doesn't interfere.

* * *

It happens that night.

The doctor's in Sam's room, checking him over one last time while the nurse stands by with the AMA papers. Dean can't keep a frown off his face – he doesn't _like _the idea of Sam checking out while he's obviously still in pain – but they're out of options. Dean gave them one of the fake credit cards, not wanting to risk insurance trouble when Sam needed medical attention, and it'll be hitting its limit anytime now.

He helped himself to some of the good painkillers, though – it's not stealing if the nurse hears a suspicious noise and goes to investigate, leaving the supply cupboard open. And he's booked them a room at a nice hotel near the hospital, one that's clean, even if it isn't fancy.

Sam's a little shaky on his feet from having been confined to his bed so long, so Dean has to help him walk the three steps to the wheelchair.

"You want to go say hi to Eugene before we go home?" Dean asks.

"Yeah."

The nurse holds the door open as Dean wheels Sam out into the corridor –

And the fire alarm goes off.

"Wait here," the doctor snaps, and Dean's torn between needing to stay with Sam and having to check on Eugene.

"Go," Sam says. "I'll be fine."

Dean turns to the doctor. "Do you know where the fire is?"

He nods at the nurse, who's speaking into the intercom. She comes to them a moment later, face grave.

"We have to evacuate. There's a fire in the Paediatric Wing."

"Dean," Sam says firmly, "_go_."

Dean goes, hoping with all he has that this wasn't a ruse to separate him from Sam.

* * *

By the time he gets to the Paediatric Wing, it's too late.

Most of the children are out safe – almost all the children, all except one.

He finds Vicky and Jeff standing on the lawn. Jeff's sobbing, great broken sounds of grief as he stares up at the blackened window, flames licking out of it.

The fire started in Eugene's room, they tell him. Vicky had gone down to the cafeteria, and an intern came to get Jeff to answer some questions about insurance. The intern's nowhere to be found now. If Dean knows his demons, the poor kid's probably stuck in the back of a broom closet with his throat slit.

It was just a few minutes.

Jeff says he tried to get Eugene, but it was too late.

Dean's head is filling with visions of _too late_, too late to get Sammy out of that apartment in Stanford, too late to save him from dying in a blazing inferno, too _late _for –

He's torn. _Lost. _There's a part of him that needs Sam, needs to lay his hand on Sam's chest and feel the heartbeat and know Sam's OK, Sam's alive, Sam's _here_. But Sam's all right, Sam's smart and Sam's a hunter and it's true that Sam's hurt but right here, right now, Vicky and Jeff have lost their son and Dean needs to talk to them.

And _he _needs to do this, not Sam. Sam's a sweet kid but he's never had a kid of his own. He couldn't possibly understand this loss. Just this once, Dean can say, "I understand how you feel," and mean it, because he does. He understands it every time he even _thinks _about Sam getting hurt, and Vicky understands what it means that Dean's standing there and talking to them outside a burning building when Sam's somewhere else, maybe in danger –

"Thank you," she says softly.

Jeff stares. "What are you _thanking _him for? It's because of him and his brother –"

"Hey," Dean snaps. "None of this is Sam's fault."

"Isn't it? Eugene wasn't talking, and maybe he was clumsy, but he was _alive_. He was safe. Then you show up talking about demons and your brother, some kind of psychic freak –"

"Jeff, please," Vicky says.

Jeff ignores her. "You tell your brother to stay away from me," he tells Dean.

* * *

Sam doesn't react when Dean tells him about Eugene. Dean can barely even keep his own voice steady, and Sam seemed to have a soft spot for the kid, but now all he does is nod, a wooden gesture that has less emotion in it than if he'd been a puppet.

"I thought so," he says. "Help me to the car?"

"The car?"

"We can't look for clues till the fire department declare it safe. Might as well get some sleep."

"Sammy, are you OK?"

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam's smile is brittle, all hard, sharp edges. "Just like my form says. Do we have a room?"

"Yeah," Dean says. Maybe Sam needs to rest. "Come on, kiddo. You'll feel better after some sleep."

* * *

Sam does sleep.

Dean's torn between shock and relief.

Sammy doesn't normally get more than four hours on a _good _night, and usually just lets himself get more and more sleep-deprived until it all comes to a head and he collapses and doesn't wake up for twelve hours and freaks Dean out.

But tonight he lies down and… sleeps.

Like a normal person.

Dean's glad Sam's sleeping, he _needs _to sleep, but…

But why isn't Sam up and brooding? Does Sam not realize Eugene's dead? A child is _dead_, and they're no closer to catching the demon that did it than they were when all this started.

Dean sits up by Sam's bed. He can't forget Eugene, can't forget how close he came to losing Sam.

In a fire.

Dean closes his eyes, letting his hand rest on Sam's chest. Here, alone in the dark with only the sound of his brother's breathing, he can admit it to himself. He's sorry Eugene's dead, and Dean would willingly have died to save the kid, but… He's relieved it wasn't Sammy.

And it makes him feel like the worst person in the world.

"Sammy," he whispers into the night, wishing he could bring himself to wake his brother and pour out all his guilt and fear.

* * *

Dean's not sure when he falls asleep, scrunched up awkwardly against the headboard with his hand in Sam's hair. When he wakes up, he's lying down, his shoes off and his jacket folded over the back of a chair.

He sits up, stretching.

The room's empty, but by the time he's done brushing his teeth, Sam's there with a bag of doughnuts. They're loaded with chocolate and sugar and jelly, and all three at once means Sam thinks Dean needs cheering up.

It's amazing how well the kid knows him.

It's also amazing how calm Sam is as he says they need to go back to the hospital to look for clues.

Dean feels like he's been dropped in bizarro-land.

* * *

Vicky and Jeff are there when they get to the hospital.

The main building is still standing, and apparently a lot of it is functional again. The Paediatric Wing is burnt to the ground, though.

Eugene's the only fatality, though there were some injuries as the inevitable result of evacuating a building full of children. Fortunately, the large number of parents and uncles and aunts meant there were enough adults to usher the children out safely while the nurses saw to grabbing IV stands and enough medicines for the night.

Everyone's OK.

Except Eugene.

Sam avoids Vicky and Jeff altogether, flashing a badge at the police and demanding to look at the pictures they've taken.

Dean goes to Vicky and Jeff. He's glad Sam's not with him when Jeff's venomous glare hits him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Tracking down the demon," Dean says quietly.

"How do you think that's going to help us now? Help Eugene? If you wanted to track demons, the time was yesterday when my son was still alive."

"Jeff," Vicky admonishes. Then, to Dean, "He's right, though. There's no point now."

"Vicky –"

"No. I don't want to know. I don't want revenge." Her voice is trembling, and the blue eyes, so much like Eugene's, are swimming with tears. "Can't you understand?"

"No, I _don't _understand. He was your _son_. Don't you want to get the son of a bitch that –"

"Don't I?" Vicky sounds bitter. "My son is _dead_. In the most horrible way possible. If I could get my hands on the thing responsible…" She trails off, but Dean knows the end of that sentence. "Don't you understand, Dean?"

Dean forces himself to think of Sam dead in a fire.

Dean forces himself to think _beyond _Sam dead in a fire, of what he'd do to the thing that killed him. And he knows that Dad's obsession with the Yellow-Eyed Demon doesn't come _close_. Dad had something left, he had his sons to ground him, at least a little. If something happens to Sam, Dean's going to be left with nothing, _nothing_ to make his life worth living, and he will tear the world apart if he has to, to hunt down the thing responsible and make it –

"God." His own voice is rough. "You're stronger than I am."

"You'll stop?"

"You want us to stop? You don't have to be involved."

"I want you to stop. Please. It's taking all I have to… to ask you to stop. If you're still tracking it down, I won't be able to stop myself from…"

"I understand."

"If I ever see my son again," Vicky whispers, "I don't want him to be ashamed of me."

* * *

Dean finally chases Sam down at the reception desk of the Main Wing. He pulls him away from the nurse he's questioning and says, "We're stopping."

Sam looks startled. "Why?"

"Vicky wants us to. It doesn't matter, Sam. The kid's dead. We can't help anything."

"We might save other kids."

"Sam, either this is an isolated incident or it's related… to whatever's going on with you." Sam stiffens, and Dean goes on quickly, "Not saying it's your fault. What I'm saying is it would be do much coincidence for there to be _two _sets of psychic kids completely unrelated to each other. So if it's related to… you and Andy and the others… We'll figure it out anyway. And if it's a one-off…"

"And the demon?"

"The demon will get what's coming. Maybe not today or tomorrow but sometime it'll fall foul of a hunter. Maybe even of us."

"But –"

"Sam, please. Let this go."

"But… you don't understand."

Sam sounds young and vulnerable, the opposite of the professional hunter he's been all day, and Dean reaches automatically for his shoulder. "What don't I understand, kiddo?"

"It should have been me," Sam whispers, and Dean grabs him by the shirtfront and shoves him back against the wall hard enough to earn a glare from the young couple filling out insurance forms.

"Don't you ever," Dean hisses, holding Sam's gaze so Sam'll know he means it, "don't you ever _dare _say a thing like that again."

Sam's eyes widen, pain and grief and something deeper that makes Dean's gut clench, and he pulls away from Dean and runs.

* * *

"Sammy."

Sam shakes his head, refusing to meet Dean's eyes, and Dean knows it's taking every ounce of his brother's willpower not to cry. He won't take that away from Sam, he _can't_, so instead of saying anything he drops into the pew next to him.

This isn't a moment for words, but he can be there.

They sit in the little hospital chapel together until the sun slopes low enough to shine through the west-facing windows, stained glass making colourful patterns on the floor.

Sam shifts, and Dean turns just enough to let his brother's head drop to his shoulder.

God can't help with this loss. Dean knows that. This isn't just about blue-eyed, golden-haired Eugene, smiling trustingly at Sam as the fire raged around them. This isn't about Vicky and Jeff. This isn't about a job they'll have to put down in their list of failures.

Dean runs a hand through Sam's hair.

"He wasn't a freak," he says quietly.

"I know," Sam murmurs, the words a barely-there puff of air on Dean's collarbone.

"You're not a freak."

Sam sighs.

Footsteps sound, echoing through the empty room. Dean doesn't have to look up to know it's Vicky. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his head under Dean's jaw. He's normally the first to comfort grieving family members, but Dean understands why he can't face her right now.

He wraps an arm around Sam in a barrier that's going to keep the entire damn world out until he's ready to deal with it again.

Vicky comes into view. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but she seems in control of herself.

They look at each other for a moment, and Dean can feel her pain like a wall. He knows what _she _lost in that fire. And _she_ knowsthat Dean still has the thing that gives his life meaning, hurting but alive, hiding in his arms from a world that terrifies him.

But Sam's nothing if not brave, and after a moment he raises his head and meets Vicky's gaze.

"I'm –"

She holds up a hand. "Don't be sorry. He liked you. You… You made him feel like he wasn't alone."

Sam nods. Vicky turns to Dean, still with his arm around Sam, still keeping the world away.

Dean meets her gaze squarely. He can't pretend that he doesn't understand what she's feeling, and he _won't _pretend he isn't unutterably grateful for Sam, hurting but alive, tucked against his side.

Vicky nods, once. This is one thing that's just between them, this knowledge of what it's like to feel responsible for the health and happiness of another human being.

"I'm happy for you," is all she says. "Take care of him."

There's an edge of grief in her voice, but no bitterness, and Dean has to blink back tears. She's an extraordinary woman; if it had been Sammy dead in that fire, Dean wouldn't have been able to keep himself from hating everyone and everything that dared be alive when his brother wasn't.

"If you ever need anything…"

She shakes her head. "I have nothing to fear from them now. What can they possibly do to me that's worse?"

Then she's gone, gone to grieve, gone to try to let go and move on and see if there's anything that can still give a shadow of meaning to an empty life. Maybe Jeff will help. Dean doubts it.

When the last echoes of her footsteps have faded, Dean urges Sam to his feet and outside to the Impala.

They lost this time, and an innocent child is dead, and it stings. But they have each other, and a fight that means even more because they have each other.

There can still be doughnuts for breakfast tomorrow.

* * *

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